Wake Up
by 221Bme
Summary: "Two hours… He'd only been gone two hours… So why the hell was the consulting detective sprawled on the living room floor?" In which Sherlock forgets to eat. (Eating disordered Sherlock)
1. Wake up

"Sherlock— _wake up._ " John tried to keep the panic out of his voice, but it forced itself in anyway.

 _Two hours…_

 _He'd only been gone two hours…_

 ** _So why the hell was the consulting detective sprawled on the living room floor?_**

John had dropped the bag he'd been carrying when he came in, and had quickly knelt beside him. He felt for breath, and pressed two fingers against the side of Sherlock's neck in search of a pulse, a frown darkening his features.

" _Jesus… why's it slow…?_ " John muttered to himself, and glanced around the room to see if there was any sign of what might have happened—clues to an intruder, maybe, or possibly even a syringe.

But all seemed in order…

" _Can you hear me?_ " He patted Sherlock's cheek—a little harder than he'd meant to—but there was minimal reaction aside from a slight groan. "Shit… _shit…_ "

He sat back and hurriedly searched for his phone, ready to dial 999. But he was just in the middle of unlocking it when Sherlock groaned again, and his eyes fluttered open. John let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, as well as another curse. "Sherlock? Can you look at me? No, _look at me_ —I need to know you can focus—"

Sherlock blinked, looking around rather dazedly for a few seconds. He turned his eyes on John, frowning slightly, and then rolled over a bit and pushed himself up to a sitting position, not without a bit of effort.

"Careful—you might have hurt something—" John watched him worriedly, ready to help but unsure of what to do.

"I'm _fine._ "

"You're obviously not _'fine.'_ People who are ' _fine'_ don't just collapse on the floor and lay there, unresponsive, and they certainly don't have a slow—dammit… your pulse is slow, that's not good. _What happened?_ "

Sherlock heaved a sigh and got to his feet, brushing himself off and trying to regain his composure as much as possible. "I… must have… passed out."

John just stared up at him incredulously, a bit open-mouthed, too busy processing what Sherlock had just said to bother standing up yet. "Passed o— _are you using?_ "

"No… I'm perfectly sober, unfortunately." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Don't…" He heaved himself up with a groan, and scrutinised the detective. "If you're not using, then what happened? Why would you pass out?"

Sherlock shifted on his feet, apparently annoyed with being trapped under John's gaze, or perhaps uncomfortable. "I suppose I must have… you know… forgotten to eat. Happens sometimes, I get busy."

"Sher— _what?_ Forgotten to—you haven't had a case in a week and half. _What the bleeding hell have you been 'busy' with?_ You can't do this. You just can't. You're not a robot, you've got a human body and you've got to feed it. I don't care if it's annoying. Okay?"

It was Sherlock's turn to stare at him for a moment, his expression difficult to read.

 _Was he paler than John had remembered, come to think of it? Or was that just the light?_

 _And for that matter… leaner, too?_

 _Damn it…_

"…Okay."


	2. Staring at the milk

" ** _Bored!_** "

"Yes, _I got that!_ " John pulled the pan off the hob and glanced at the consulting detective in the living room, draped across his chair moodily. "Dinner's nearly ready, maybe that'll give you something to do…"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and groaned under his breath. A few minutes passed in silence, and he abruptly dug his phone from his pocket and checked it, raising an eyebrow interestedly. He heaved himself up to his feet and disappeared into his room.

"Where are you going?" John frowned as Sherlock came back out shortly, fully dressed and just slipping on his coat.

"Out, for a bit. There's a new specimen at the morgue I'd like to have a look at."

"But it's nearly ten o'clock at night…" John was aware he was looking at him strangely, but he didn't care.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll be sure not to wake the dead, then."

"You know what I meant…" John sighed. "Aren't you going to eat, first—"

"I'll grab something while I'm out. Don't wait up for me." Sherlock didn't leave room for argument, and was already off down the stairs before John could say anything.

John just stood there for a minute, and looked down at the pan, pursing his lips tiredly. "Not even surprised…"

* * *

 _Past midnight._

 _It had to be._

It was dark enough outside the windows, and it just _felt_ late—John had felt that even before he'd opened his eyes.

 _Hm…_

 _Still in his armchair…_

 _Must have dozed off._

 _And what had woken him was—_

"Have a good talk with the dead guy, then?" John groaned and sat up a bit, glancing at Sherlock as he pulled off his scarf and gloves.

Sherlock didn't answer, just shooting him a look before he walked over to the kitchen and switched on the kettle, starting to prepare a cup of tea.

"What? Oh, by the way, there's some leftovers in the fridge if you're still hungry…" John twisted in his chair to look back at him, and then frowned slightly. "Sherlock?"

After a few more seconds the consulting detective raised his head. "Hm?"

"You were… staring at the milk."

Sherlock looked down at the carton again, sitting on the counter beside his cup. "I was just thinking."

"About…?"

"How many questions you ask at two in the morning." He picked up the unopened carton and returned it to the fridge. "I'm going to bed."

John sighed quietly. "G'night, Sherlock…"


	3. Could be warmer

Nearly a week and a half had passed, during which John had the… _unique_ _pleasure_ of documenting a case involving a vintage diving helmet and a severed human thumbnail.

At least _someone_ seemed to have enjoyed it.

John raised his eyes from the book he was reading, to see that the aforementioned 'someone' had stood up from his chair and was apparently fiddling with the thermostat.

"Hey." He waited for a response that didn't come. "What are you doing…?"

"Could be warmer..."

John frowned at the detective's back. "What are you on about? The temperature's fine. You've never complained about this setting before."

"It's probably broken, then." Sherlock shrugged as he turned back around and walked back over to his chair, settling into it and pulling his feet up onto the seat.

"Hang on…" John set the book down on the arm of the chair and got to his feet.

Sherlock followed him with his eyes sullenly as John came over with that decidedly doctor-ish look about him, but he looked away resolutely as John reached the chair, as if determined not to acknowledge the fact that he was being looked at.

"Are you getting sick…?" John reached out to lay a hand on Sherlock's forehead, and although the detective immediately tried to swat his hand away John was prepared, and caught him by the wrist to keep his hand still.

John's brow furrowed, and Sherlock quickly pulled his hand out of his grip, wrapping his arms around himself uncomfortably as if to keep them out of John's reach.

"Sherlock…" John was still looking at him, a bit startled. "Have you—…Have your wrists always been so… _bony?_ "

Sherlock rolled his eyes hard, but then he put on a forced, tight lipped smile. " _Yes,_ " he asserted briskly. "Of course they have been. You've just never noticed before. There's nothing wrong with them. _Not that I'm surprised you wouldn't notice something…_ "

John stared at him for a few more seconds, still a little open-mouthed as he processed everything. He finally looked down. "You might… still be coming down with something… Just let me check, alright? I'm a doctor."

"I'm fine…"

"You always say that."


	4. Bruised

_"_ _You might… still be coming down with something… Just let me check, alright? I'm a doctor."_

 _"_ _I'm fine…"_

 _"_ _You always say that."_

"Because I am." Sherlock looked at him steadily, as if willing him to back off.

But John wasn't ready to take no for an answer, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'll even make it quick. Just let me do my job. Okay?"

The detective hesitated, and then sighed. "Fine…"

"Good." John uncrossed his arms and held out a hand expectantly. "Let me see your wrist." He ignored the suspicious look on Sherlock's face, and stayed where he was, waiting. "I just want to check your pulse."

Finally Sherlock obliged, and rolled his eyes as the doctor pressed two fingers against the inside of his wrist. When he looked back at him John was frowning slightly.

"It's still slow… not dangerously or anything, but that's… that isn't normal. Not good. Didn't feel like you had a fever, though… I would need a thermometer to be sure, but I doubt you'd put up with that…" He looked down. "…Right. Where did these come from, then?"

Sherlock followed John's gaze to two light but obviously recent bruises peeking out from under his sleeve, on the inside of his wrist.

"I… hadn't noticed those before…" He shrugged.

"Okay… Are there any other unexplained bruises, anywhere? Because that could be relevant." He watched as Sherlock paused, apparently undecided. "I'll take that as a 'yes.' You've been a bit pale recently… y'know, you could be anaemic. You should probably get a blood test…"

"Oh _please,_ I'm fine!" Sherlock growled and pushed himself to his feet quickly, but he stopped moving for a few seconds once he was up, just standing there.

John's brow furrowed again as he watched the colour drain from his friend's face and his pupils constrict—all very slight and quick, before he had shaken his head and continued on, but it had definitely happened.

"Sherlock."

" _What?_ "

"You're sick…" John stared at him, as if hoping to find an answer written on his face. " _Something's_ wrong… Obviously… _Do you know what it is?_ Is there something you're not telling me? Because if there is…"

"If there is… what? You'll yell at me?" It was intended to be sarcastic, clearly, but it came off tired.

"No. Well… maybe. But… I'd be even more concerned."


	5. Toast?

"Really… there's no reason to be concerned… if anything it's probably just a cold." Sherlock shrugged, forcing another little smile.

"Could be… but with no fever… And besides, these don't look like cold symptoms."

"Still." Sherlock sighed heavily, looking like he wanted nothing more than to be done with this conversation. "Nothing to be worried about. I'm fine, really."

"When was the last time you ate something?"

"Yesterday." The answer came quickly, seemingly before Sherlock had even had time to think about it.

"O…kay…" John felt an unexplainable hint of something he couldn't put his finger on… something just wasn't sitting quite right. "And what was it?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but then paused for a second or two. "A… I think was an… apple?"

"And?"

He looked slightly caught off guard, but hid it fairly well. "A coffee."

"Coffee isn't food." John frowned. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"No, I know that—I meant—it had sugar in it, so that's… something…" There was something odd about the way he was trying to backtrack, like a drowning man trying to get his head back above the water.

"What are you talking about…? I just asked you a simple question… shouldn't be that hard…"

It wasn't especially strange for the detective to not eat, especially during cases. Sometimes when he was in one of his moods he might even go a day or even two without—but their last case had been over and done with for three days now, and he hadn't appeared to have been showing any of the normal indications that he was sulking; he'd been talking and walking around, and the music he'd been playing on his violin hadn't sounded particularly melancholy.

"And I answered it. Wasn't hard." Sherlock walked over to the window, shifting the curtain to glance out at the sky.

John's eyes narrowed.

 _Slow pulse…_

 _Possible anaemia…_

 _Unexplained bruises…_

 _Apparent dizziness on standing up…_

"Sherlock. Have you been… forgetting to eat again?"

He froze there for a moment, before he let the curtain drop back into place. "No… I don't just _forget things…_ I'm a Holmes, after all…"

"Last week you said you did. Remember that? When you _passed out?_ "

Sherlock didn't turn around yet. "Well… 'forget' was the wrong word, maybe… Sometimes I get busy, I lose track of time… And besides, I already told you, I ate yesterday."

"Yeah. An apple. Anything else, besides the coffee? The whole day?" John had crossed his arms over his chest, partly to put on a stern look, and partly because he wasn't really sure what to do with his hands.

" _Yes._ " Sherlock bowed his head and put his hands up to his temples, gesturing like he usually did when he was frustrated or emphatic. "Of course. There was… toast."

John raised an eyebrow, tilting his head very slightly in incredulity. "Really…?"

"Yes."

"Yeah?" He set his jaw and pressed his lips together, feeling a cold drop in the pit of his stomach. " _Because we've been out of bread for the past two days._ "


	6. Tracker

_Why would he lie?_

 _Why on_ _ **earth**_ _would he lie about what he'd eaten?_

John was beginning to doubt the validity of his friend's claim about the apple, too, though he knew for sure he'd had the coffee, seeing as how he'd made that himself yesterday, and brought Sherlock a cup.

"Sherlock."

The detective had gone silent at John's words, and didn't seem to be able to find the right thing to say. He lowered his eyes, and seemed to be thinking hard.

" _Sherlock._ " John repeated, more firmly this time. "Hey. _Look at me, okay?_ I need you to tell me what the _hell's_ going on. Right now. _Understood?_ "

He wasn't sure if the slight undercurrent of alarm he felt was audible in his voice or not, but he just tried to keep it steady and commanding.

No use letting that show.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and raised his gaze to look at him, his eyes seeming to be searching John's expression for something. "…There's nothing wrong with me."

"That's… not exactly what I said." John's frown deepened.

 _What the hell…?_

"I'm _fine…_ " Sherlock slowly walked back over to his chair and let himself fall back into it, clearly attempting to keep his posture forcibly relaxed.

"Could have fooled me…"

"Yes, well… that's not exactly _difficult…_ " Sherlock muttered, leaning back in his chair.

"Yeah—I'm just going to ignore that one."

 _Hang on…_

John's eyes narrowed as his gaze was drawn to something black just peeking out from underneath the hem of the detective's lounge trousers, on his left ankle.

" _What is that?_ **_Is that ankle monitor?_** "

Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard they almost seemed in danger of rolling back into his head and never being seen again. He put his face in his hands, leaving only his eyes uncovered, and sighed heavily.

It took him a very long moment to finally lower them and manage to speak.

"…First of all… **_no._** " He was gesturing with each word. "Second of all… also **_no,_** and do you really think I would even—when do you _think_ I would have even—"

"Well what is it? You're hardly the type for _jewellery,_ you have to admit!"

Sherlock paused, looking like he was weighing the value of his next sentences in his head, clearly not very pleased with any of them. "It's an… activity tracker."

John's thought process came to an abrupt standstill, and it took him a second to work out exactly what the hell was going on.

"You _what?_ "

"You know…" Sherlock glanced away uncomfortably. "Tracks steps, and… that…"

"Yeah, I know what it is, Sherlock. I'm just not so clear on why _you have one._ "


	7. Explain myself

"I can do whatever I like. I don't have to _explain myself to you_." Sherlock growled, heaving himself up from his chair again.

"You know what? Okay. Fine. You don't. Don't tell me. _Something's obviously wrong,_ but _fine._ " John held up his hands in frustration, giving the detective a hard look.

Sherlock stood there, looking at him for a long moment.

 _Perhaps if John had the key—knew the code—he might have been able to translate that look._

 _But as it was it seemed as good as a mask._

Before Sherlock had a chance to move John shook his head and turned, stomping into the kitchen and beginning the preparations for dinner, not bothering to keep the pots and pans from clanking together loudly.

Sherlock glanced at the living room window, watching little pearls of water slide down the glass in the light rain that was falling outside.

In the kitchen John was muttering to himself under his breath as he worked. He opened one of the cupboards and stared at the contents, as if something good might appear if he waited long enough.

It didn't.

"I _really_ need to grocery shopping…" He mumbled as he took an old tin of beans from the shelf and shut the door with a _snap._ He raised his voice a little bit. "Unless you're going to do it this time. _Not that you ever do._ "

There was no answer, and John rolled his eyes and went digging through the drawers for a tin opener. He found a pair of medical forceps first, which looked like they might have dried blood on them, tossed haphazardly into the silverware drawer.

" _Jesus chri—_ " John huffed loudly over the jangle of cutlery as he slammed the drawer shut. "Sherlock! You cannot—you _cannot keep d_ —"

He stopped as he turned back to the living room and found it silent and empty, completely devoid of consulting detective.

"Sherlock?" He took a few steps out into the room, but still got no reply. That wasn't entirely unusual, though, Sherlock didn't always answer when he was spoken to…

John sighed quietly and made his way back to the kitchen, muttering to himself again.

 _That man…_

He went ahead and dumped the rest of the silverware from the drawer into the sink, to be cleaned just in case. Bio-hazards were called hazards for a reason, after all…

As the silence stretched on John finally paused, staring down into the sink.

 _Something was obviously wrong…_

 _Sherlock wasn't_ _admitting it, but it was…_

John had been frustrated, sure, but there was still a nagging worry in the back of his mind, whispering that he might have been a _little_ harsh, that maybe he ought to have kept trying to get his friend to talk…

 _He was looking thin, after all…_


	8. Breathe

Sherlock couldn't breathe.

 _He couldn't—_

He thought he tasted blood, but he couldn't be sure.

He felt like his limbs weren't even responding anymore. He felt like they'd gone numb and he was floating instead of running, but he couldn't stop moving.

Not until he'd reached the end of this road.

He couldn't stop. Couldn't let himself.

 _But he—_

It felt like his heart was about to explode. It felt like he'd swallowed razor wire that burned white hot agony with every desperate gasp for oxygen. Somehow even though his limbs were numb they were on fire with shooting, icy pain. All things considered, he deeply wished that he could check out mentally for the next two minutes.

Just until he reached the end of this road...

At least the rain had stopped a while ago. But his hair was still dripping, and he couldn't tell if it was leftover raindrops or sweat down the back of his shirt. Perhaps both.

 _But he couldn't **breathe—**_

And he couldn't see anymore, either.

Black spots overcame his vision, and he couldn't feel his legs at all. He couldn't feel them give out, and he hardly felt the impact with the pavement, but he heard it. He heard the remaining breath knocked out of himself. He heard the sound of his entire body coming to a staggering, stumbling, crashing halt.

Only four long steps short of his goal.

 _He **definitely** tasted blood._

He bit down, trying to ground himself. Though, with his warm cheek pressed against the clammy pavement, it wasn't clear how much more grounded he could get.

He lay there for who knew how long—time felt fake; there was only pain. He was glad that the spot he'd collapsed in wasn't very visible to traffic and rarely visited by pedestrians.

The black spots were receding slowly.

 _He still couldn't breathe..._

His cell phone rang somewhere right beside his face, where it must have landed when he fell.

 _John's ringtone..._

He stared at it as it rang again, his chest heaving, unsure what to do. _If_ he could gather the strength to pick it up and answer it, he'd have to explain—later, when he could speak—why he was choking for breath... And if he _didn't_ answer it, he'd have to explain—later—why he was unavailable.

His body made the decision for him, as he found he couldn't even sit up.

 _Shouldn't have skipped dinner…_

The phone eventually stopped ringing and went quiet, and everything seemed very still. Freakishly still, aside from his head, which still felt like it was spinning.

 _He felt sick._

 _He... was going to be sick—_

He finally managed to drag himself up to a sitting position and grabbed the phone in one hand so he wouldn't throw up on it. He bent over and couldn't hold back a retch, but nothing came up.

Not much in there.

 _Maybe that was a good thing._

The burning in his lungs was finally getting better, and he was relieved to be able to breathe again. But at the same time the pain had been good. It had given him something else to think about, which was nice…

When the nausea had passed he gave in and let himself drop back to the pavement. Not moving felt incredible... And the coolness of the rain soaked sidewalk felt blissful on his burning skin.

When he could move again he would check his activity tracker. He didn't dare hope for as high a number as he wanted, but the thought still lingered in the back of his mind. Definitely over 200 calories burned… at least…

 _But he hadn't made it those last four steps…_

 ** _Failure…_**


End file.
